


Everything, and Nothing

by SeiShonagon



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Bisexual Character, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, John Needs Hugs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mucous Membrane, Origin Story, Poverty, Punk John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeiShonagon/pseuds/SeiShonagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first, and last, time for John and Gary, before John left Liverpool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything, and Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this on behalf of a friend without an AO3 account - you can tell it's not mine 'cause it's loads better than my stuff. *g* All comments and kudos will definitely be passed to her.

All Bowie's fault, really. Well, him and Gaz. 

We'd been sitting around Gaz's bedroom, passing around a cheap bottle of stolen whisky, listening to some of his dad's old records. 

Took a long, hard gulp, feeling the burn down my throat. Passed it to Gaz, then stood up to change the record. 

I leaned against the wall as _The Man Who Sold the World_ played on, staring at the album cover in my hands. David Bowie in a dress, draped across a chaise with an effortless sort of grace that made me want to shag him and slap him all at once. 

I scoffed. "Don't know how the hell he manages to pull it off. All that eyeliner and the birds still can't get enough of him."

Gaz gave me a crooked smile and walked up beside me, taking the album cover and handing me the nearly empty bottle in its place. He held it up, comparing us, eyes glancing from Bowie to me as I finished it off. 

"I dunno, might be a good look for you," he laughed. 

"Sod off," I said gruffly. "I'd look bloody stupid and you know it."

"Yeah, but you're John Constantine. You do stupid in spades."

"Fair point," I admitted with a wink. "You got another bottle?"

Of course he did. Gary Lester always had more.

He always _wanted_ more, even though he already had everything. I had nothing, and for that, I'd always hated Gaz a bit. 

We'd been best mates for as long as I could remember. It started all innocence, two boys running off into the woods, or showing off by doing card tricks after school. But before long it was holding hands, show me yours and I'll show you mine, kissing just for "practice." Never serious, though. Not from my end. At least, that's what I told myself. By the time we were 15, I'd already had a couple girls. Fancied I had some idea what it meant to fall in love, and I'd been so damned certain whatever I felt for him, it wasn't love. 

I was obviously a bloody idiot. 

Still, a kiss was a kiss, and he was damn good at kissing, so yeah, we messed around a bit after the second bottle was gone, like we usually did. 

My head had gone all nice and fuzzy, like it gets in that pleasant stage of drunk. Gaz watched me drain the last few drops, and then his lips were on mine. I could taste the cheap, sour whisky, and underneath it, the familiar taste of the first person I'd ever kissed. I shoved my tongue in his mouth, tasting him, raw and rough. We rolled around a bit on the bed, both hard as we pressed ourselves together. His warm hands crept under my shirt, running over my body, slipping it off. 

His hands moved up my arms, and then they were holding my own hands, pushing me down on the bed. Tongue flickering in my mouth. I rubbed against him like a cat, desperate for him. Wanting to touch him so badly. But my hands were in his, and he wouldn't let go, no matter how I squirmed. 

I could play him, most of the time. Use him to get what I needed. But when it came to this, he bloody owned me, and he always knew what I liked.

Switching both my wrists to one hand, he reached down, touching me through my grubby jeans as he bit his way down my neck. Panting with need now, I pushed against his hand, but his fingers danced away.

"Stop teasing me, you bastard!" I growled. 

"All right," he said, smirking. "But you do me next."

Still holding me down, he unzipped me and took my cock in his hand, that familiar, guitar-calloused hand. The first I'd ever felt wank me off beside me own. Just turned me into a pathetic puddle of need, he did, stroking me as his mouth marked my shoulder, nipped down my body, leaving trails of bruises. They were hard bites, always, and I'd always see his eyes linger on the marks later, so damned pleased at the sight.

He had me, all right. Sometimes I felt like nothing more than his bloody pet. 

Because he had everything, and I had nothing, and the only power I held over him was knowing he was in love with me, while telling myself I wasn't. 

When his mouth moved to my nipple, I came with a whimper, surprising and fierce, my body arcing against him. Eyes closed, every fiber of me focused on the warmth of his touch, his crushing grip holding me down, the sharp pain of his teeth biting my chest.

I licked the cum from his hand, tasting myself, sucking every finger clean, feeling like a slut, and liking it. Then it was my turn, and he shoved his cock down my throat all at once. I sucked, aching for his familiar flavor. He grabbed my hair and rammed himself down until I couldn't breathe, then pulled out to just the tip, then came slamming back in. Over and over. I grabbed his hips, pulling him closer, deeper. Hungry for every inch and every drop. Gaz fucked my mouth until he was finished, filling me, and I gulped that down, too. 

When he was done, he collapsed next to me, panting, and I curled up close, shutting everything out but the sound of him. The feel of him. His warmth as he held me.

After, we snuck into his parent's room, looking for some of his mum's cigarettes to steal. Saw her eyeliner on the dresser, and in some mad drunken whim, I stole that as well. We went out to the woods to smoke, sitting underneath the tree where we’d first held hands. Where we’d first kissed. Where I’d first told anyone about the beatings, and the cigarette burns. Where I’d sobbed on his shoulder after I found out my sister was moving away. Where I’d confessed in a whisper how close I'd come to slitting my own wrists, shaking as I made the first shallow cut and too much of a coward to go any further. 

Stumbled home after dark, hoping me vicious bastard of a father was still at the pub. Feeling right miserable by that point, stomach in knots as I reached the door. Never knew what to expect when I walked in the house, but whenever he got home before me, it meant I was late, and that meant yet another round of punches, on top of the usual smacks I normally got just for being me. Real bright spot in my life, he was. 

Took a deep breath to steel myself and walked inside, relieved to find myself blessedly alone. I walked to my room, kicked off my battered Docs and tossed my jacket on the floor. Sitting on the edge of the messy bed, my head spun too much for me to do anything for a few minutes. 

Finally, I got up to take a slash. Glancing in the chipped mirror after, I ran wet fingers through my hair, spiking it up. I glared at my reflection, trying my best to look hard, then spoiled it by laughing as I remembered the eyeliner in my pocket. 

Putting on eyeliner was a damn spot trickier than I expected, but, smeared as it was, I kinda liked it. Wouldn't be the last time, either. Skulking about the punk scene in London, shouting at the crowds from the stage or getting smashed at the bar, wearing eyeliner would be just another piece of the costume, yeah? Like the safety pin through the ear and the torn jeans so tight they seemed painted on. And Gaz had been right, it would drive the birds mad, and more than a few blokes, too. 

But that night I wasn't some hard punk with a nasty attitude. I was a skinny git with wet hair and bloodshot eyes rimmed with smudgy black liner, suddenly scared of what his father would think if he ever saw him looking like that. And so distracted by his own reflection that he didn't hear the man he feared so much coming home over the sound of the running faucet. 

"What the hell you doing, boy?" 

I spun around, still holding the sodding pencil in my hand, bloody terrified and cursing myself for leaving the bathroom door open. 

Without another word, he dragged me into the hall by my ragged T-shirt, then punched me in the head, lightning fast, before I could react. Slammed me against the wall, then smacked my face, once, twice, by the third time I was tasting blood. I spat it on the floor, keeping my eyes down, hating myself for feeling ashamed. For feeling like I deserved it.

"This what your mother died for?" he shouted, smacking me again. "For a twisted little pervert?"

A punch this time, and I staggered, but he grabbed my head and twisted me to face him. "Your mum would be heartbroken if she knew she'd given birth to a sick queer like you."

Didn't have the words yet to defend myself, though I would, eventually. My dad was just the first, really. I'd be called a queer and a ponce and threatened and beaten and worse on a pretty regular basis for the rest of my life, and I'd learn when to be nasty and when to turn on the charm so I'd be fucking his arse by the end of the night, and when to just turn around and run away. 

Me dear old dad taught me my first brutal lessons in dealing with being hated from a real early age. Taught me with his fist and his belt and his insults. 

Another hard smack, and my ears were ringing, and I couldn't help it, I'd never been and never would be able to stop myself from a good cry when it was coming. Even though I knew it would only make him madder. 

And yeah, he gave me another smack for crying, right on cue. "Well, just look at that. Smearing all your pretty makeup. Always knew there was something wrong with you, with both of you. Between you and your slut of a sister, though, it's you who sickens me the most. Got a face that looks like it's begging to suck cock. That what you wanna be, boy? A filthy little cocksucker?"

Still don't know how I managed to do it, but I looked up at him and forced myself to grin through the tears and the blood and the shame and the pain. "Yeah, Dad. It is. Sucked a bloke's cock earlier today, actually. Surprised you can't smell the cum on my breath."

The sucker punch got me right in the gut, and this time I did collapse, my insides throbbing as I curled up, trying not to puke and piss myself at the same time. He kicked me in the back and I screamed, trying to crawl away, pure panic driving me. 

"You shoulda been the one to die," he spat. 

Heard him unbuckling his belt, and this sick, nameless stab of fear came over me, alongside a black nightmare rage I hadn't felt since I'd tried to kill him with a nasty little spell a year back. I'd been too much of a bloody coward to go through with it, in the end, but at that moment, how I wished him dead. 

Forced myself to stand, as he fumbled with the belt he'd beaten me with so often. I put all my fear and all my rage into a single punch, the first time I had ever dared to strike the vicious monster who raised me. 

And he laughed. 

Before I could even raise my hand for another sad attempt, his hand was around my throat, slamming me against the wall. Choking me and lifting me until my toes barely touched the floor. 

"I made you, and I can end you, Johnny boy," he hissed, his voice dripping with loathing. 

Christ, how could he still be so fast? So strong? I was nearly a grown man, but facing him I would always be a weak, pathetic kid, whimpering at his rage. 

"Please, Dad," I mouthed, no air left to speak, fingers feebly trying to pull him away. 

"Should've been you," he hissed, right next to my ear. "I wanted it to be you."

And in that moment, as my vision started to get dark around the edges, silently weeping and as scared of him as I had ever been, I really thought this was it. The bastard was gonna end me, right there. 

With my last bit of strength, I kicked out, hard, and he didn't laugh this time. He groaned with surprise, letting me slip through his fingers to gulp a few glorious mouthfuls of air while he held his stomach. My first instinct was to hurt him, but I'd learned a real valuable lesson that night about dealing with people who hated me. 

I turned around and ran away. 

Ran right out the door, into the freezing night air. Wearing socks and dirty jeans and a tattered, threadbare black T-shirt, with no money and nowhere to go but anywhere else. 

I ran until I finally fell to my knees, my sides burning, gasping wildly for every breath. And then I had a good long cry by myself there, hugging my knees to my chest, weeping and trembling by the side of the road until the panic started to fade.

Replaced by a grim determination. 

By the time I reached Gaz's place, my feet were cut and throbbing, and I was shivering from the cold. No idea how much time had passed, but it must have been late, ’cos his lights were out. 

I picked up a few little stones from the garden to throw at his second story window, feeling like a ponce, but defiantly telling my dad's nasty voice of shame in my head to sod off.

The first one missed. The second cracked the glass. 

"Oi!" I said, halfway between shouting and whispering. "Gaz, open the bloody window!"

He stuck his head out cautiously, glancing about with an annoyed expression. "What the hell, John? You trying to wake the whole place?"

"I need your help, Gaz."

"You look like shit."

"Ta, mate. Appreciate that."

"Aren't you freezing?"

"Be a luv and bring us a coat, won't you? And some boots."

"Yeah, all right," he said after a moment. "Meet you at the tree."

Damn that bloody cold. It gets inside you, working its way into your bones. I sat under the tree, waiting for him, shaking, teeth chattering as I planned my escape. 

When he showed up with a thermos of tea, a bottle of whiskey, a dusty pair of boots and his old leather jacket, I was so grateful I could've kissed him. But I didn't. 

Instead, I wrapped myself up in the smell of his coat, and drank his tea in silence. No, I didn't kiss him, yet, but I let him hold me, arms wrapped warm and snug until the shivers stopped and the tea was all gone and we'd moved on to the whisky. 

Finally, as we sat smoking, passing the bottle, the silence stretching as long as we could bear, he stroked my bruised face, real gentle. 

"Your dad's a bastard," Gaz said softly. 

"Tell me one I haven't heard."

And he held me even tighter, his arm around my shoulder, pressing me close. I held his hand for a moment, then reached out for the bottle again. 

"I'm leaving, Gaz."

“Now that one I have heard before."

"I mean it," I snapped back. "I'm done with this place. Done with living in his house and living with his anger. Done with Liverpool. I'm never coming back."

He said nothing, and I took another swig. 

"I'm headed to London."

Let that sit between us for a bit, looking up at his dark eyes. He kissed my forehead, real tender.

"Come with me," I whispered, as his lips pulled away. 

"John..." He started to speak, and then stopped, took the bottle from me, drained the rest of it before he continued. "You know I can't. My dad would cut me off."

"Yeah, well, mine'd probably kill me if I ever went back," I said with a chuckle that was half a sob. 

He kissed me, then. And I think part of it was guilt, and part of it was pity, but even more of it was love. 

Kissing was usually all we did, really. Wanking each other off was rarer. Every once and again, I sucked him off, or he sucked me, but that was it. We'd never shagged, not all the way. Just a couple girls on my end, like I said, but none on his. He liked boys and that was it. 

Well, really, he liked me, and that was it. 

He kissed me hungrily, desperately, as though it would never happen again, and he was right. It never would, after that night. But before I even realized what I was doing, I was on his lap, rubbing against him as he held me. Pulling out his cock, stroking it. Riding him as he leaned back against our tree. 

And I was so certain I'd never come back to Liverpool. So certain I'd never see him again. 

Oh, but I wanted to. Wanted him. Wanted to prove to my dad and myself that it was worth it. That fucking blokes was worth everything else that came with it. 

To be honest, I've since figured out I prefer women. But I've loved men, too, wanted men just as bad as any bird, and it's a load of bollocks to think you have to choose one or the other. And I don't care if it was Bowie's fault, or Gaz's, ‘cos getting me away from my arsehole of a father before it was too late was worth all the suffering that came after. 

Better to be free, and live with the consequences, than be trapped, and live with the fear. 

So I stood up, and I took off my clothes, on that freezing cold night. Skin turned to goose flesh right away, and the shivering came back, but the look in Gaz's eyes was worth shivering in the dark. 

I started stroking myself, standing in front of him, and he looked up, rock hard, staring at me like I was some god. 

Mind you, like I said, neither one of us had ever done it with a bloke before. We did it all wrong. No lube, no preparation, no protection. We were stupid kids, and it was our first time.

I stepped closer to him, and he took me in his mouth. While he sucked me off, I slipped two fingers between my lips, getting them slick, then slid them up my arse for a moment, stretching myself a bit. That I'd done before, and it always felt good. Always imagined a bloke would be more of the same. 

But it wasn't. 

I lowered myself too fast, and damn, it burned. I let out a shuddering scream that echoed through the night, tense from the cold, suddenly torn apart. 

Then I felt his hands on my back, pulling my close, pulling me into his warmth, and I began to rock against him. 

It still hurt, I learned it always hurts, even if only a bit, but it feels good, too. A layer of pleasure over the pain, and I do love mixing my pleasure and pain. 

I felt so full of him, in that way that only being shagged feels, that way that feels so different from doing the shagging. I was his, and he was all warm lips against mine, and warm hands guiding my hips. All hard cock filling me up, driving me forward and back,

Before I knew it, I was bouncing on him, my skin hot, jerking myself off as I rode him. All of me a slave to that single penetration. Opening to him, riding him, faster, and his breathing was hard and fast, and so was mine. Lips crashing together and apart, bodies thrusting in unison. Yeah, I was his, and it was gorgeous, and it was worth it, and he gasped as he came inside me. 

But it was the last time I was ever his. ‘Cos I was bound anywhere but here, off into the cold, dark unknown, and Gaz was off back home to his safe, warm house, with parents who loved him, and spoiled him rotten. Where he had it all, but still wanted more. While I left with nothing but borrowed shoes that barely fit and a shabby coat that wasn't mine. 

It's a terrible thing to find yourself living rough in London in the winter, with nothing to sell but yourself and only your wits and a healthy dose of cynicism to keep you alive. But I found people like Ray who were kind to me, expecting nothing back, and I met Chas, who taught me how real friendship felt, uncomplicated by all the messiness of lust. And then I met Anne Marie, my way in to the world of magic I'd been so desperately drawn to since I was a kid. Before long, London felt like home, and Liverpool a distant memory. A bloody awful one, at that. 

When Gaz finally joined me a few years later, the dynamics had all changed. Yeah, he had the car and the money, but I wasn't a skinny git anymore. I was a hard punk with a nasty attitude on my way to becoming a mage, and already a bit of a legend. I hung out at all the roughest bars and had the toughest friends, and knew all the dealers to help push Gaz even further in his constant quest for more. 

I had everything, and all he had was money, which wasn't worth much when you knew how to survive with none. And I always made sure he knew it, ‘cos I'm a right bastard, and there was still that poisoned bit of me that hated him.

No, I never did let him shag me again, but I did let him make music with me. Mucous Membrane was our twisted love child, the closest I ever came to being his again. 

But Gaz is gone now. His screams have finally quieted down, and my sobs are nearly as loud. 

I take another long gulp of cheap, sour whisky, feeling it burn. 

His too-familiar hand is getting cold, but I can't make myself let go. Once I do, I'll never hold it again.

I always knew how to play Gary Lester. Learned real early to take advantage of how he felt about me. To make him give me what I needed. Only now he's got nothing left to give. 

Not even the warmth of his touch.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Always, and Never](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293351) by [SeiShonagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeiShonagon/pseuds/SeiShonagon)




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